


Sticky Sporran

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Kilts, M/M, Was supposed to be crack but became porny and romantic, accidental fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has gone to a party dressed in his family tartan and has been forced to bring Sherlock with him with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticky Sporran

**Author's Note:**

> I am not Scottish. I know only a tiny bit about kilts etc so if there's a glaring error or something please be gentle with me. This fic was entirely prompted by a conversation begun over a picture of a sporran that then grew wildly out of control (the conversation, not the sporran). This fic was supposed to be crack but that lasted for about the first line.

Sherlock was being a complete shit! They’d been standing in the crowd for hours now, the party nearly at an end and John was on his last nerve. “Why are we here?” demanded Sherlock with immense irritation. John took a deep breath and let it go silently, took another one and smiled before answering. This was a tenth time Sherlock had asked this question.

“It’s Michael’s fifth birthday as well as their family re-union! I’m the last Watson left from my family, I was invited and I’m not leaving alone you in the flat right now.” said John with what Sherlock had referred to as his _angry smile_. John looked perfectly pleasant except around the eyes, there was a tightening there that should have told Sherlock he had yet again pushed his flatmate right to the limit of his vast tolerance and patience. John watched Sherlock discreetly glare at Colin for daring invite them. John’s cousin didn’t look anything like John until he smiled; then Sherlock said he was certain he would have known Colin was John’s family even without being told. Colin was tall, dark, sturdy, and he seemed to laugh all the time. He was standing off in another group with a tiny baby in his arms, their latest edition, and Sherlock sneered at the familial tenderness all around him. John gritted his teeth and kept smiling in the opposite direction. Several people were vaguely acquainted with John and had come over to make other introductions but there was a momentary lull as the party swirled by them.

Sherlock pushed some more. “Why are you dressed that way again?” he was being petulant and both of them knew it. Sherlock knew perfectly well why John was wearing the family tartan, it wasn’t a secret! Sherlock was being annoying because it had been weeks since they’d had a good case, months since the business with Mary had finally ended, and Sherlock was more difficult than ever! John knew Sherlock had cocaine hidden away somewhere in the flat. Mycroft had tipped him off regarding the purchase three days ago and since then John hadn’t left Sherlock unattended for a second. Sherlock was just being stubborn now. John was sure he didn’t even want the drugs, not really. He just wanted to wind John up to entertain himself and it worked so John retaliated. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come to a children’s birthday party so he spent the entire time looming in the background muttering deductions about the other party guests. All of it was unflattering but at least Sherlock kept it to hissed whispers in the doctor’s ear and it made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand up when Sherlock’s breath brushed across his skin. John tried to concentrate on the party instead. There were plenty of adults to speak to; Colin Watson was gregarious and booming. He had neighbors and family in attendance, the gathering was large, all the small corners filled with children of all ages, the oldest being Sherlock. He was driving John spare! Sherlock adjusted his bespoke jacket meaningfully and eyed John with some sourness.

“I’m Scottish Sherlock!” John waved his drink around. They were in a large boisterous crowd of smiling faces and bellowing laughter.  All the men except for Sherlock were wearing kilts, all informally joking with one another, “My _only_ cousin invited us to his kid’s birthday party, it’s their family reunion weekend too; I knew everyone would wear their kilts and they did. I could have sorted one out for you if I’d known you’d feel out of place.” John was standing there regaled head to toe in his traditional outfit. From the neat black coatee he wore, to the crisp white shirt and black bow-tie, the silver-chained sporran, down to his thick dark blue stockings and leather ghillie brogues John was a Scotsman. The only thing John had on that wasn’t from his family was the black and silver sgian dhubh that was stowed in the upper part of his left stocking, it’s ornately carved wooden handle subtly engraved with his family crest. Sherlock had commissioned its creation and had given it to John specifically for today, an event that had been on John’s calendar for months, surprising John with it just this morning. There was a jewel set in the black bogwood handle, a large peridot that matched the green in John’s tartan perfectly. The blade was Damascus steel and John had stared at the mottling in silent wonder. Where had Sherlock even gotten such a rarity? It was a work of art that the tall man had simply dropped on the sofa beside the soldier. He hadn’t even let John say thank you, he’d stormed off as if mortally offended about needing to be up and dressed to leave.

“The Holmes tartan doesn’t suit me.” grumbled Sherlock and glared around. John bit his lip for the second at the image that flashed through his head of Sherlock in a kilt, the dark green of his clan’s colors bringing out the shots of green in his eyes, the richness of his dark hair. John risked a small glance up at the detective. His lips were pressed together sulkily now. He wasn’t going to make more of a fuss than this though because Sherlock actually got on well with children. If all the adults vanished Sherlock would probably have the time of his life playing board games and eating cake. Children were direct and forthright, qualities Sherlock responded well to. John sighed a bit and leaned back, moving himself a little closer to Sherlock who was always calmer for getting some attention. John turned his eyes up to the tall man by his side. Sherlock’s eyes were sad and he wasn’t looking at John right then. He was looking outside at the couples dancing on the patio, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends. The expression disappeared quickly though and John wondered if he’d misread it.

“I bet you’d look smashing in a kilt. You look good in anything.” John was long over being self-conscious about being Sherlock’s side-kick. Next to the tempestuous hurricane of deductive prowess that was Sherlock John was merely background, the earth over which his flatmate raged, leaving John unnoticed by all. It had been years and he was accustomed to being overlooked by nearly everyone because Sherlock was beautiful and amazing, eye-catching and breath-taking, even when he was being a dick like he was right then. Sherlock was tapping his foot impatiently and since he was standing so close to John his toe kept knocking against John’s foot with annoying frequency. Sherlock refused to shift unless John moved and then Sherlock would simply move until his toe was hitting John’s shoe yet again. He also wasn’t eating, just holding a plate of nibbles so no one would ask him if he was hungry for anything on the well-provisioned table.

When it finally came time for cake and presents Sherlock was practically glued to John’s back as the crowd pressed tight to cheer Michael on. The young boy hooted and shouted as he unveiled one new toy after another, the highlight of which was a collection of plastic dinosaurs complete with their own specimen boxes with their proper names on it but also came with a cardboard castle and little accessories like helmets and flame-throwers that could be attached to the toys for battle purposes. Michael’s shriek of delight nearly deafened the whole room, “Thanks Uncle John, Uncle Sherlock!” shouted the small boy, hugging the box tight. It got put on the top of his stack of loot, and was admired by all the other children as they waited for the cake to arrive.

While everyone was singing Happy Birthday John leaned over, “You bought Michael a present?” John couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought to bring one. Sherlock kept him busy every minute he wasn’t working at the clinic and even though purchasing a birthday present had been on his mental to-do list somehow it had gotten lost amongst the other items like picking Sherlock up from emergency again, or following his insane flatmate on one case after another until John often didn’t know if he was coming or going. It was his own fault, he never said no when Sherlock made his demands, not once.

“You didn’t select one. I waited for you to do so but you forgot. I noticed and decided to keep you from shaming your family. It only took a moment’s research to determine the most efficacious present for a boy of his age and interests. I ordered it online and had it delivered.” Sherlock still sounded sulky so John just kept smiling, a much more honest and pleased smile before he accepted both pieces of cake that were given to them even though Sherlock didn’t want dessert either. John set the extra piece down and took a fork to his serving. Sherlock scowled.

“Want a taste?” Sherlock’s frown grew even deeper so John narrowed his eyes before deliberately scooping up a forkful of icing. Before Sherlock could move John smeared some of it on his lower lip. That turned out to be a mistake because now John could not tear his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock sucking his lip angrily into his mouth and using his tongue to lick off the offending confection. The detective reached over, his eyes boring furiously into John’s as he picked up his serving of cake, quickly and without deliberation scooped up a spoonful of ice-cream and flicked it at John.

John managed to move but not quite enough. The blob of barely frozen treat landed right on his sporran, right on one of the three ancient fur tassels. John stopped moving and just stared at it. This had been his grandfather’s sporran. His grandmother had made it, lovingly stitching it together herself, her skills evident in every luscious, supple inch of it. John kept it wrapped in tissue paper, safely stowed in a special trunk, waiting to be used. The ice-cream soaked into the leather and fur instantly; stickily dripping to further offend John’s family by running down John’s tartan in an obscene trail, “You _didn’t_.”

Sherlock looked aghast and John realized he’d just reacted and not thought about what he was doing, “John I’m sor….” John walked away, his shoulders stiff with indignant fury. His grandfather’s sporran! He went to the kitchen and used some paper-towel to dab the worst of the mess away. Colin’s wife was there, “John, have the kiddies gotten you?” in a flash she was there, leaning over in front of him and dabbing away the ice-cream. “Come on, before that stains. The leather is well cured and that fur will clean off easily, one moment.” Cara led John to the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub with a damp microfiber cloth in hand, expertly cleaning the mess up with the effortless skill that spoke of long practice. Colin’s wife’s family was large; most of the tots in attendance came from her side.

That’s how Sherlock found him a minute later, John’s kilt swinging back and forth incriminatingly as Cara sat unseen in front of him dabbing away innocently, “I’m going home.” said Sherlock, his voice shockingly hollow and upset sounding.

All of John’s anger evaporated at the distress in Sherlock’s voice, “What?” John looked over his shoulder in time to see Sherlock making his way as fast as he could toward the front door, “Cara, I have to go. Tell Colin we had a lovely time. Thanks for your help.”

“Better run John, that one’s got long legs.” Cara was a darling and just laughed and promised to pass his farewells on to everyone else as he chased after Sherlock. He got to the curb just as Sherlock climbed into a cab and took off without him. There was nowhere to go but the train station so John hailed another cab and gave chase.

He got there just as Sherlock was boarding a train for London, catching the doors just as they were closing, “Sherlock! Stop!”

Sherlock did stop and looked at John with intense surprise, “Why are you here John Watson?”

“You said you were going home!” exclaimed John who hadn’t needed more of a reason than that to go after Sherlock, no matter what kind of a prat he’d been all day. He looked his best friend over. Sherlock was tense, almost rigid, and his fists were balled up tight.

“I don’t need to stand there and witness your continuing indulgence in the fairer sex John. Go back to flirting with everyone in the room and I will go back to Baker Street to be alone. I don’t know why you made me come with you anyway.” John looked at Sherlock who was pale and still so upset his lips were trembling.

“Sherlock…Sherlock I don’t know what you mean. I wasn’t flirting with anyone! They’re all relatives of Colin’s wife or his extended family. I was just being nice.” John didn’t recall flirting with anyone but what if he had? He was a single man, free to do as he chose but as he answered he saw Sherlock’s face relax a bit and a wary expression take its place so for some reason he added, “I wasn’t flirting. I swear. Not with anyone.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything more, instead sitting himself stiffly on one of the seats and pretending to look out the window. John took the seat next to him and examined his sporran. Cara had done a pretty good job getting the ice-cream off of everything but the fur was still a bit sticky. He’d need to give it a good cleaning somehow when they got home. He sighed and dropped the tassel, sitting back, resigned to wooden silence from his flatmate.

He dozed off during the silent trip and woke as they were approaching London, Sherlock’s head on his shoulder, the detective deeply asleep. Sherlock had fallen asleep on John many times; they spent a lot of time in cabs coming back from crime scenes at all hours of the night, that wasn’t new. What was new was Sherlock’s hand on his bare thigh where his kilt had fallen open. The fabric still draped John’s groin demurely, the sporran preserving his dignity but Sherlock’s hand was warm and heavy, a strange and very noticeable presence on the doctor’s skin. John swore to himself, this wasn’t good, especially when Sherlock’s fingers twitched as he dreamed and John’s cock woke up. No, this wasn’t good at all.

What was worse was the PA announcement informing them that they’d reached their station. Sherlock groaned a bit as he started to wake, the rumble of his voice shivering its way through John’s skin, and then Sherlock flexed his fingers, gripping John’s thigh firmly, then slid his palm back and forth over the light covering of hair on the exposed patch of skin. Suddenly his hand disappeared and Sherlock woke all the way with a shocked gasp, sitting back away from John. John didn’t say anything because it would bring attention to the fact that he was mostly erect, only the weight of his wallet and keys inside the sporran were keeping John’s cock from waving hello. He was confused, this was Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes, his gorgeous, brilliant, _asexual_ best-friend and flatmate. Why was he reacting this way? Instead he allowed Sherlock to keep his dignity and John’s by pretending nothing had happened, “Just a few more minutes.” he said calmly.

“Very well.” said Sherlock, who looked firmly out the window. John glanced at Sherlock and caught the tall man’s reflection in the night darkened window. Sherlock was looking at John’s sporran via the reverse image and John was pretty certain the expression on the detective’s face wasn’t the desire for some good take-away but he was most certainly hungry for something. John looked away in shocked surprise. Sherlock was _turned on_ by John’s outfit, particularly the sporran!

John’s mind went topsy-turvy for a minute as the possibilities presented themselves to him in a cascade of long-denied realization. If Sherlock was turned on it meant that he might be _interested_ … possibly. John’s hopes shot straight through the roof as years of repressed thoughts raged suddenly and he needed to discretely re-arrange his kilt and sporran, crossing his leg so his erection wasn’t so prominent. Walking was going to be difficult; he’d need to stay in front of Sherlock at the very least so the detective didn’t see the tell-tale bulge. He’d just _assumed_ Sherlock was asexual, he’d never asked nor had Sherlock ever said. The only thing Sherlock had admitted was that girlfriends weren’t his area. Did that mean boyfriends were? He’d never really gotten a clear answer about that. Was John able to compete with the Work somehow and get a bit of Sherlock’s attention?

John decided to use Sherlock’s methods. He tested his theory. When their train pulled into their station John kept himself in front of Sherlock. There were a lot of people disembarking and John contrived to be bumped backward and allowed his buttocks to press squarely against Sherlock’s groin. There was distinctive lump in the taller man’s pants and John had to force himself to keep breathing steadily when he felt more than heard Sherlock swear under his breath and attempt to move back a bit. John blessed the rudeness of the youths in front of them who shoved hurriedly through the doors, jamming John and Sherlock tight together so there was no mistaking the erection Sherlock had also been hiding. John said nothing but grinned triumphantly to himself. Further testing was required!

John’s mind flew over the last few weeks. Sherlock had become testier and testier each day that passed, becoming even more demanding than ever, abrasive and almost stifling. John’s eyes opened wide as he stared at the streets of London. What if … no, it couldn’t be but…. what if this entire time Sherlock had been trying to figure out how to let John know he was _interested_? John hadn’t had a girlfriend, not for ages now. He couldn’t even bring to mind the last time he’d even been on a coffee-date with a woman. Sherlock was too demanding of his time, keeping John occupied…every…spare….what?

Had Sherlock been keeping John from dating? He was a consummate cock-blocker; that was for certain. It wouldn’t be implausible to assume he’d upped his game and simply stopped John from even _asking_ someone on a date. Suddenly John was plagued with doubts. What could Sherlock Holmes ever want with _him_? John was plain, short, getting softer in the middle every single day, and his hair was filled with silver now instead of being just charming highlights. Sherlock had yet to produce a single gray hair, his dark curls as unsullied as ever. It really wasn’t fair that he was so….perfect. John sat in the back of the cab and felt insecure until he caught a reflection of Sherlock’s reflection, a trick of the lights all around them and he wore that hungry look still. John’s confidence soared.

For once his mind was in overdrive as he contemplated his next move. He didn’t want to make a mistake about this. He needed to do something that would incontrovertibly prove that Sherlock Holmes wanted John Watson. They were nearly at Baker Street now so John considered his available options. It was late enough in the evening for a meal, Sherlock hadn’t eaten, “Dinner?” he suggested.

Sherlock just nodded and changed their destination to Angelo’s. John sat back in his seat, smiling to himself. Going directly to Angelo’s meant not changing out of their current garb. Sherlock was keeping John in his kilt just a little longer. _Very interesting indeed_ , it took everything in John not to smirk outright. He was very nearly certain about this now.

His stomach was rumbling by the time they pulled up. Sherlock surprised him by taking care of the fare and allowing John to get out first before following behind him. John kept himself in front of Sherlock, not exactly walking slowly but most certainly allowing Sherlock all the opportunity he might need to take in John’s behind in a kilt. Angelo beamed at them and seated them at their regular table, bringing a for-once-welcomed candle and setting it off to the side of both men who had simultaneously decided to sit next to each other rather than across the table as was their normal routine. “Hungry?” he asked Sherlock innocently, touching the back of the other man’s hand as he asked.

Sherlock nearly flinched but answered, “Starving.” his voice was a hungry sounding as his secret gaze had been. John smirked inside again. The doctor sipped the water Angelo had provided while he perused the menu. After all these years he knew it by heart but he wanted to linger a bit, so he took another sip and mulled the selections over. Sherlock shifted impatiently, setting his menu down almost immediately. When it looked like he was about to complain John innocently adjusted how he was sitting and suddenly his knee was barely touching Sherlock’s trouser leg. Sherlock froze and kept silent.

“Me too, completely ravenous.” John made a hungry sound and finally chose the manicotti, one meat, and one cheese. He also requested a large order of garlic cheese toast, a particular weakness of Sherlock’s, as well as a bottle of wine though he deferred to Sherlock’s expertise when it came to the label. Angelo spoiled them like always and their appetiser arrived quickly. John cut a still melting slice into quarters and put it in front of Sherlock who ignored it for a minute before reluctantly beginning to eat. John just kept quartering the one slice after another, eating more than half of it himself but still getting Sherlock to eat plenty.

When their meals arrive John took almost unseemly pleasure in every single bite, rolling his eyes and exclaiming softly before each new bite so Sherlock’s eyes were drawn again and again to John’s mouth to the point where Sherlock wasn’t even eating. He was just sitting there; staring at John, his fork half-way to his mouth, “Want a bite?” offered John, again entirely innocent seeming, “It’s really good. I think he’s changed the seasonings again, what do you think?” John leaned forward and offered Sherlock a forkful of his pasta. Sherlock’s mouth fell open and he accepted the offering without protest.

“Less oregano.” reported Sherlock after duly savoring the bite. The way his jaw moved as he chewed and swallowed made John’s mouth go dry and he took a sip of his wine. Sherlock was watching John’s mouth again and he swallowed too. John kept at his meal and Sherlock realized he needed to move a bit and John noted that Sherlock was just eating whatever his fork hit, he wasn’t paying attention in the least to his meal.

John was pretty full by the time they were done eating but Sherlock ordered a small chocolate and cream dessert, how could John say no? “We’re walking home after this!” he said. They’d need to work off these excess calories somehow.

“Very well John.” said Sherlock who was being unusually accommodating. By the time they were ready to leave John was pleasantly over-full, a tiny bit tipsy since they’d finished an entire bottle of wine, and very pleased overall with Sherlock’s responses to everything. It would take fifteen minutes to stroll home and John planned to enjoy every step.

Sherlock’s legs were long and even though he didn’t hurry John still had to step sharply to keep up with him. The sway of his kilt was almost soothing as they paced their way silently through the streets, Sherlock saying not another word but still walking slightly closer to John than was necessary. When they arrived on Baker Street he was close enough for John to feel the heat radiate from his body. John made a show of digging his key from his sporran and made sure he preceded Sherlock up the stairs, allowing his steps to make his kilt sway nonchalantly from side to side while John chattered about the day, the trip, the food, _the anything at all_ but how he knew Sherlock’s eyes were glued to his ass. Sherlock made no attempt to join the one-sided conversation.

“Tea?” offered John as soon as they were inside, “I need something hot in my mouth now.” he took off his coatee and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair, then unbuttoned his formal shirt the second he got the kettle on, “I don’t want to stain this.” he had a vest on underneath, he always wore layers. After his time in Afghanistan John appreciated staying warm, and after he shrugged out of it he folded it up and left in on the kitchen table. Sherlock had managed to hang his coat up and fumbled off his jacket as well but he still wasn’t speaking. The kettle boiled so John set two cups to brewing and decided to remove his brogues. He just lifted his leg and began to pluck at the lacing, keeping his smile inside when he heard Sherlock’s sharp inhalation as the kilt rode up John’s thigh just a touch. Deftly undoing the complex knotting John worked his shoe off and began on the other one. It snarled, “Dammit.”

John ignored it for a moment to rescue the tea before it became bitter, adding cream to his and too much sugar to Sherlock’s, just the way he liked it. Setting the cups on the table John lifted his leg once again and set it on his chair seat, picking at the knot to untangle it. His hip was a bit stiff and the angle was awkward, “Oh for heaven’s sake here!” snapped Sherlock who came over. With three quick tugs he had the knot undone and with relief John took his shoe off.

“Thanks Sherlock!” said John, and then took his tea to the sofa where normally only Sherlock sat but the taller man didn’t protest. Instead he followed John silently, settling next to John who put his feet up on the coffee table and clicked on the telly. He flipped around for a few minutes before settling on a movie that seemed to have an energetic soundtrack and very little else to offer. Perfect.

John reached over and picked up his tea, his thick stockings keeping his feet warm, his new sgian dhubh glittering saucily from the hem. John withdrew it, “Thanks for this. It’s really something.”

“You didn’t have one. The ones readily available were unsuitable.” Sherlock didn’t mention how incredibly expensive this blade must have been to make; all its parts were precious, and put together it was a remarkable piece. John would never have anticipated such a valuable gift from a family member, never mind from someone who was no relation whatsoever. Sherlock had really put a lot of effort into today.

“Almost makes me wish I wore a kilt more often, just so I could have this on.” said John wistfully, stroking the sheath which was sturdy but smooth. It hadn’t bothered John a bit when it was in his stocking, it felt exactly right, the perfect weight, just the right size and shape for his hand, and it was deadly, not just ornamental. He loved it.

Sherlock sighed almost wearily, “Nothing is stopping you from wearing your kilt. Granted this one is for formal occasions, but there is nothing stopping you from getting kilts for more every day wear. You are entitled after all, heritage and all that.” Sherlock’s family was hard to determine. He and Mycroft barely looked related except that John had met their parents. He was a mix of Irish, English, French and John suspected a dash of intergalactic alien of some kind because in a lot of ways Sherlock was too beautiful to be entirely human. His eyes for instance, who had eyes like that?

John got up and went to the kitchen. He rinsed out a clean dishcloth and dabbed at his sporran. He took the cloth back to the living room and set about cleaning the last of the now dried ice-cream from the fur tassels. John realized he’d have an easier time of it if he took it off so he leaned forward to reach the buckle behind him when Sherlock snapped again, “For goodness sake John, it’s not that difficult!” Sherlock snatched the dishcloth away from John, knelt on the carpet next to John’s feet to peer at the tassel and then carefully dabbed at the tacky spot, his gaze burning through the sporran toward everything beneath.

John held his breath. Sherlock was concentrating intensely on what he was doing. John could see the top of his head and spent a rare moment admiring how Sherlock hair swirled around and coiled wildly this way and that. It was so shiny that John almost reached out to run his hands through it, stopping himself at the last moment. He indulged in a long look over Sherlock’s body in this position; if he were nude he could take Sherlock by the neck and gently push his face downward. Sherlock was breathing a tiny bit faster but his hands were steady, “Want me to take it off?”

“Not necessary.” snapped Sherlock, sounding as irritated as ever, “It’s almost done.” Sherlock finished with the tassel and checked out the rest of the sporran. There was ice-cream dried in one of the folds, he cleaned it. There was a drop of it still on John’s kilt right beneath it and clearly without thinking Sherlock stuck his hand up John’s kilt to brace the material and dabbed the mess away. John was now the one completely breathless. Sherlock wasn’t exactly touching him but somehow that just made John more aware of how close Sherlock’s hand was to his cock and that reminded his cock that it wasn’t being used at the moment, and it had ideas about how to rectify that situation. He kept breathing slowly and steadily, forcing himself to remain calm, “Just a bit more.” said Sherlock and his voice was soft, not irritated at all. In fact, the detective sounded almost weak, “Won’t take long.”

“I don’t mind.” said John, just as softly and suddenly the air was electric. The background buzz of attraction and hesitation had amplified with those few syllables and suddenly every move they made became heavy with meaning, ripe with intention. Without thinking he spread his knees wider, “Here.”

To his surprise Sherlock shifted smoothly, kneeling between John’s knees to keep cleaning the invisible ice-cream away. His hand trailed beneath John’s kilt slowly as his other hand pressed against the fabric again and again, developing a slow rhythmic pace to it until one painstaking inch at a time Sherlock worked his way to the hem of John’s kilt, “That’s all of it?” asked John, his voice a bit rough.

“Possibly, I haven’t inspected every area yet.” Sherlock’s voice was also a bit rough and John bit back a surprised moan when Sherlock ran his long fingers down John’s thick woolen stocking, ostensibly checking for dried-on ice-cream. John shivered as Sherlock’s fingers very deliberately trailed down John’s calf until Sherlock had traced over John’s entire foot with the tips of his fingers, “Nothing on this side.”

“That’s good then, right?” asked John.

“I haven’t checked the other one yet.” Well that was true enough. Sherlock shifted a tiny bit after propping John’s foot up on the coffee table behind him so his knee was bent and the kilt rode up an inch or two, “Won’t take long.”

“Alright, best to be thorough.” said John huskily and Sherlock nodded, reaching out to lift John’s other leg. Once again Sherlock’s fingers trailed up and down John’s calf for a long time before wandering down to John’s foot where he slowly traced every line and curve before spreading his fingers wide and sliding back toward John’s knee, “Some might have soaked through.” suggested John.

“True.” Without further ado, his fingers still spread wide Sherlock grazed the palm of his hand over John’s bare knee, “The cloth is sticky now though, I’d have to rinse it before I could continue.”

“Yeah?” if Sherlock got up now the moment would disappear forever, John knew that for a fact.

“Not necessary though.” said Sherlock. John couldn’t restrain his gasp when Sherlock leaned all the way forward and ghosted his lips over the skin on the inside of John’s knee, “Nothing there.”

“Maybe the other side?” suggested John.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock twisted a bit and bent his head once again, his lips not exactly touching John’s skin but still creating a tingling trail of heat that wandered back and forth as he moved. “I’d better check.”

Sherlock rested his hands on John’s knees and pushed slowly upward so his kilt slid up his thighs, revealing his naked flesh slowly. Sherlock’s face was rapt but he stopped pushing when the fabric caught on John’s sporran which was doing its level best to keep John’s cock from standing straight up. He bent his head again but this time the tip of his tongue flicked out and John could not stop the sigh that escaped him as Sherlock slowly licked his way up John’s thigh until he reached John’s kilt. He shifted to the other leg to repeat his search.

John reached behind himself and undid the buckle to his sporran. Sherlock pulled it away and without looking set it carefully on the coffee table, using his free hand to push John’s kilt up even more. Before John was fully exposed the detective looked up, “You have to say yes or no.”

John didn’t hesitate. There was no need to hesitate. He wanted this and now he knew Sherlock did too. This was a question John was ready for, “Yes.”

Sherlock ducked his head and John was surprised when the detective tucked himself under John’s kilt, hiding himself away as he let himself go. Sherlock’s mouth was anything but tentative now. He licked and explored upward until his tongue was lapping at the crease of John’s thighs which were now spread as wide as they could get. John let his head fall back as he relaxed and allowed Sherlock to do whatever he wanted.

Sherlock wanted a lot.

John caught his breath when Sherlock allowed his hands to graze along the backs of John’s thighs, then to his surprise Sherlock lifted his legs and draped them over his narrow shoulders. The tall man then pressed his face against John’s heavy erection, his soft lips mouthing at John’s testicles as he nuzzled in tenderly, just gently lipping at John’s flesh, working his way all over, rubbing, kissing, _worshiping_ John. When he’d finally had his fill he pushed John’s legs wide again, tugging John’s hips down so he was splayed open. When he was positioned to Sherlock’s satisfaction John watched as his kilt moved back and forth over Sherlock’s head as he licked his way over every bit of skin he could find. At long last Sherlock wrapped one long-fingered hand around John’s cock and pulled slowly twice before rubbing the head of it over his lips.

John couldn’t stop his moan. Sherlock’s mouth was hot, his lips so soft, and his tongue! Sherlock teased and toyed with John’s foreskin as his fingers rubbed saliva and pre-come everywhere. John’s eyes closed and his eyebrows knitted together when Sherlock began to take John inside, sucking and licking gently. Sherlock moaned when John reached the back of his mouth. It was deep and rumbling, filled with such desire, such lust that John’s back arched and his hands went to Sherlock’s head. Sherlock pulled off suddenly, “Oh god yes John!” John pulled up his kilt to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, tugging lightly and was amazed when Sherlock shuddered from head to toe ecstatically before taking John’s cock again.

Now John could see how Sherlock’s mouth was stretched around his hard shaft, how his cheeks hollowed even more to make his cheekbones more prominent than ever. He seemed to be enjoying sucking John as much as John was enjoying being sucked; his rumbling moan almost unceasing as his head bobbed slowly up and down. Sherlock worked the base of John’s cock with one hand while he fondled John’s balls with the other. Sherlock reached up and rubbed two fingers invitingly over John’s lips and once again without hesitating John sucked and lapped at them, making them as slick as he could. Sherlock pulled off again, “I want to fuck you.”

“Yes.”

“I want to make you mine.”

“Yes.”

 Sherlock shifted. He moved up and John leaned forward, their mouths meeting in a torrid kiss that was all teeth and tongues, groans and sighs as their chests pressed together and their arms wrapped around each other. Sherlock was as hard as John, the fabric of his trousers strained as he rutted against John’s, “Clothes off.”

“Bedroom.”

“Mine.”

“I’ve got condoms.”

“Yours.”

Sherlock hauled John up, kissing him hard and walking him backward to the bedroom, his mouth never leaving for an instant, as if kissing John were his only goal in life, as if keeping their mouths together was his only purpose. John felt consumed and renewed at the same time as he experienced the vast passion Sherlock had kept hidden away. Sherlock pushed John back onto the pillows and stripped quickly while he looked John over. John managed to get his vest off and one stocking before Sherlock was kneeling nude in front of him, his cock thick and jutting. Sherlock was uncut as well, his foreskin pulled back, the head of his cock glistening already. He was staring at John splayed out on the bed in his kilt and one sock, “You’re beautiful.” said the tall man seriously. John was incredulous. Sherlock found _him_ beautiful? “You’re fascinating.”

Sherlock covered John’s body with his own, claiming another deep kiss and another and another until John was dizzy and nearly swooning with desire. Sherlock’s fingers were clever; he teased and tested John until at long last he began to press inward. They groaned together as Sherlock’s finger began to work in and out of his body. “You’re delicious.” whispered Sherlock against his mouth, “I can’t get enough.”

Was this the same man who routinely destroyed their flat doing experiments, who kept a list of adults he’d made weep, the same man who accepted the title of high-functioning sociopath without batting an eye? Was this the same man who just earlier today annoyed John so much he would have happily punched Sherlock right in the delectable mouth he was kissing once again, “I never would have believed.” said John.

“What.”

“That you’d ever want someone like me.” Sherlock was already working in a second finger, “I’m only…”

“Shut up John. How could it ever be anyone but you?  I don’t want to hear you tell me you’re _only_ anything. You’re not an _only_. You are an _everything_. You’re _everything_ , do you understand John? Everything. _To me_. All of it.” Sherlock kissed John again, an achingly tender kiss as if Sherlock were letting his lips touch the most fragile and precious of things, “You are everything that is good and beautiful to me.”

Sherlock made love to John. His kissed his body as if memorizing its lines and curves, all his many imperfections reverently tasted and adored until Sherlock was trembling with want nearly as much as John and they couldn’t hold off any longer. John helped Sherlock roll on a condom, using a small packet of lube to slick them both. Sherlock was cautious and gentle, he prepared John as well as he could before the longing was too much to resist. “My beautiful John.” sighed Sherlock as he pressed inward, his mouth catching John’s.

It was shocking and startling; the weight of Sherlock’s cock was not what John had anticipated. It wasn’t easy for him to enter but it was almost painless and Sherlock took care to be as considerate as possible, watching John intently as he pushed more and more of himself inward. John’s eyes were wide, locked onto Sherlock’s and he saw the fierce concentration on the man’s face as he focused on John and John alone. All of Sherlock’s astounding attention was on John and he had never felt so cherished or adored in his life. The look on Sherlock’s face said everything to John, how had he not known how this man had felt? How had he not seen the depth of feeling he was capable of, the emotion written in every line on his face as Sherlock told John in every way but words how he felt about him.

Sherlock gathered John in his arms and rolled them over carefully, allowing John to settle himself until he was comfortable and able to control the depth and speed of their love-play. John’s kilt settled down, obscuring their hips but somehow not being able to see what was going on made it hotter. John began to move, tentatively at first but Sherlock was patient, demonstrating a strength of will John had never witnessed before as he bit that full bottom lip to keep himself from thrusting upward. The rasp of the tartan over his overheated flesh was a welcome distraction from the new sensations he was experiencing. It was heady and wonderful and so unexpected that John couldn’t think clearly.

Sherlock took hold of John’s hips and began to help him move, adjusting John’s position a bit before finally rocking his hips. John groaned as the overfull feeling spread, making his muscles feel tense and lax at the same time as his body adjusted and began to want more. Sherlock moved his hips and set his feet before thrusting deliberately once more, keeping it shallower than John expected but when Sherlock managed to brush across John’s prostate the doctor let loose a surprised gasp at the delicious shock of pleasure. Sherlock’s mouth had fallen open, his gaze hot and intense, “Just look at you,” the words were whispered, his voice ragged, “so perfect, so fucking perfect.”

Oh god! How had he done this? How had someone like John Watson earned the adulation of someone like Sherlock Holmes? “Sherlock.” John leaned down and kissed him as hard as he could, bracing his knees and silently giving Sherlock permission to take control. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John once more and rolled them again.

Sherlock began slowly, barely rocking at first until John was relaxed and pliant beneath him. Then Sherlock’s strokes grew deeper, more daring, responding to John’s urging until final Sherlock was assured that John was alright with more. John clawed at the buttons that kept the kilt in place and Sherlock helped him strip it off finally both men reaching for John’s cock. Sherlock took control of that too so John pulled him close, made Sherlock expose that long alabaster neck so John could suck a hard biting kiss onto it, bruising the pristine skin almost garishly, “Why?”

“I’m making you mine.” said John and Sherlock groaned and shuddered hard from head to toe. John could feel Sherlock’s cock thicken minutely and a hoarse shout heralded Sherlock’s orgasm. John groaned with him as he felt Sherlock’s come inside him, felt himself grow so slick, the wet sliding sound magnified now even over Sherlock’s guttural moan. John reached for his now neglected cock but Sherlock wouldn’t let him. Instead, still panting hard Sherlock withdrew himself, bent his head, and swallowed John right down to the root. Now John was shouting as the hot wet heat of Sherlock’s throat convulsed around the head of his cock. The tips of Sherlock’s fingers very softly massaged John’s testicles and it was the final bit of stimulation that John needed. With an almost painfully sharp gasp John began to come, his fingers knotted in Sherlock’s hair again, tugging it almost painfully as his hips thrust shallowly, his seed being greedily swallowed which made John groan again and again until it was almost too much.

Even though they were hot and sweaty now, desperate to catch their breath, Sherlock cleaned them both up quickly then pulled John to him, holding him close and petting his back as they recuperated. John was exhausted and dazed; he was falling into a drowse when Sherlock spoke softly, “I thought this might never happen. I’ve wanted it for a long time. I didn’t know how to ask for it.”

“Plus I’m spectacularly dense sometimes.”

“Yes, that was a bit of a bar. I’m glad we got over that.” John wondered how many clues he had seen but not observed, wonder how many times Sherlock had tried to reach out and forge this new connection between them. Sherlock shifted so he could look at John, his eyes were serious, “I have no skill for romance John, I have no idea how to date someone, no idea what you could possibly gain by associating exclusively with someone as naturally abrasive as I am. All I know is being with you is what makes me happiest, and being with you is all I’ll ever really want.”

John didn’t need to think about this for long, “We make each other happy Sherlock, and I think despite how you see yourself you’re pretty damn good at romancing John Watson. You have all the qualities to keep me interested, you always have. I just didn’t know you wanted me too, not the way I wanted you, like this.”

“You did?” Sherlock sounded entirely surprised.

“Yeah, for ages but you were so committed to the Work and you never once said that you might…well maybe you did, clearly I’m an idiot for not seeing before this.” John was rueful but Sherlock kissed him again for several minutes.

“I’m getting you other kilts.”

“I suspected as much.”

There wasn’t a lot of conversation after that but there were a lot of other kisses. Some were soft and brief but most were long and soul-searing as they silently promised each other forever. When their eyes grew too heavy to stay open Sherlock gathered John carefully into his arms once more, held onto him like John was his anchor and John felt humbled once more as Sherlock showed him yet again how much he needed him. With a small smile John finally surrendered to sleep and dreamed about a life with Sherlock, one filled with mystery and late-night chases, love-making and take-away, and John couldn’t dream of a better life than that.

 

Please don't forget to thank faultierqueen for providing this:  [The Hotness That Is John Watson In A Kilt](http://cutteroo.tumblr.com/post/123033294247/as-a-special-for-riorothbates-since-they-begged-so%20the%20credit) because I will never get over this. Never. Love it so much!!!!


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